Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(63)

Bryn stared down at her phone and I leaned ever to peer at the screen. She was shopping online.

When Emmett took the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. He was nearly twice the size of the other musicians. Muscles and height weren’t typically associated with pianists. He wore a black suit, with a crisp white shirt underneath the blazer, unbuttoned at the neck and no tie.

Bryn gasped. “Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly be any hotter,” she whispered next to me. I slowly exhaled a breath. The suit gave him a softer, more sensual side, although one look at his hands and the solid build underneath the suit and it was clear he had the body of a warrior. His hair stood up, as if he had been nervously pulling his fingers through it. On the football field, behind a mask, he moved like a soldier, all broad shoulders. But tonight, he looked vulnerable and exposed. Another music student walked out with him, carrying a marching drum. He was also wearing a suit. He stood next to the piano, drumsticks poised in the ready position.

Emmett didn’t acknowledge the audience like the other performers had done. His face was solely focused on the piano keys. His profile was rigid, his jaw set tight. I had never seen Emmett nervous before.

He had to move the bench back a foot to accommodate for his legs. I noted his unconventional posture and was reminded of the first time I ever saw him.

Once his hands hit the keys, you stopped noticing his posture or the fact that his wrists didn’t curve with delicacy like most of the pianists.

He played by memory, and the music sounded fresh and earnest, as if someone had opened up a seam along his heart and his feelings were pouring out. His fast, aggressive mind came out through the keys. His athletic composure made his playing sharp and precise. He handled the keys with the same precision, speed, and confidence that he used on the field.

The song mixed classical and contemporary sounds, as if he was trying to tell two different stories and braid them into one. It was both light and heavy. Hopeful and dark. Just when it followed a pattern, it turned and meandered. Sometimes notes felt light like rain, and other times they thundered with the added beat of the drums. I looked over at the drums. They were reminiscent of a heart pounding along to the music.

Was it a love story? A memoir? A chapter of his life? Did I have a role in it?

I closed my eyes. The song sounded confrontational. Sometimes the notes questioned, other times they yelled, and then they settled back into a sweet bed of notes that bordered on sexual. The melody climbed and soared to a high, hopeful note, and the drums slipped away to give the piano the spotlight. The song ended in a kind of sweet surrender.

It left me stunned. I swore I heard our conversations in the song. Pieces of me. Pieces of us.

The audience cut through the silence with a rigorous applause. I clapped so hard my hands stung. I realized I had been holding my breath. I inhaled deeply. My heart was pounding.

Emmett stood and nodded a thank-you to the crowd before he left the stage.

I hardly heard a note of the last performer. My mind was still echoing sounds of Emmett’s song. When the final performer left the stage, the music director walked out and thanked the audience for their support of the arts. The overhead lights brightened and I stretched my arms out and looked over at Bryn. She was online, looking at shoes.

“What did you think?” I asked.

Bryn nodded. “Very productive.” She showed me a picture of red chunky heels on her phone screen.

“Check these out. Forty percent off.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You were ordering shoes?”

“I had to. There was only one pair left in stock at this price.”

I sighed and stood up, the emotional catharsis making my movement light as if my body was filled with too much oxygen.

…

EMMETT

I crossed the theater, looking for Bryn, and I noticed Josh and Frank standing in the back. Frank was leaning uncomfortably against the wall. His hands were tucked protectively under his arms, as if making contact with anyone could contaminate his skin with a flesh-eating virus.

I wove through the crowd and when I reached them, Josh extended his fist.

“Nice song, man,” he said. “Very fucked up.”

I knocked my fist against his and nodded at the accurate description. I was just relieved the performance was over. All the jittery nerves and anxiety were finally draining out of my system. I hardly ever got nervous before a game, but football was never personal to me. I was a robot out there, following plays and guidelines. I was emotionally detached. This was baring my soul. It was allowing a room of strangers to listen in on one of the most personal conversations of my life.

I looked at Frank and raised my eyebrows.

“It wasn’t the worst set in the program,” he offered. Coming from Frank, it was like a gold star in excellence.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. I had a feeling Frank didn’t make a lot of social appearances. CeCe walked passed us and I grabbed her hand before she could breeze by.

“Hey,” I said.

She pulled her hand back and zipped up her coat.

“You can’t leave yet,” I told her.

She didn’t look right at me, just over my shoulder, like she was scanning the crowd. Her eyes were a little guarded. “Great piece,” she said. “Different. Very Mozart meets The Lumineers meets R.E.M.”

I smiled.

“Early R.E.M., before the lead singer got all weird on heroin,” she added.